Goodnight Kisses
by Rainstorm55
Summary: It's bedtime/Story Time in Neverland. Peter and Wendy put the Lost Boys to bed…and then an unforeseen complication arises.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: J.M. Barrie owns the story; P.J. Hogan the movie. No copyright infringement intended

Wendy sat on her rickety wicker throne and folded her hands, smiling fondly at her brothers and sons as she waited for them to settle down.

They had finished a dinner of succulent fruits, fresh catfish from the lagoon and Slightly's favorite sour berry pudding for dessert. Now it was Story Time.

Wendy enjoyed sharing the word gems, and was thrilled to see that her audience was still both attentive and appreciative after almost three weeks of nightly recitals.

She was trying to keep things lively by providing plenty of variation. To this end, after a few evenings in a row of her own childhood favorites, she sometimes told one about Peter - just for a change.

She told her own version of his first skirmishes with the Indians, and of course of the day he had relieved the dear Captain of his right hand. She made up the details on the spur of the moment, and embellished the events shamelessly.

Peter loved the narratives, and cared not a whit about their inaccuracy, since the exaggerations only painted him as more heroic. He laughed in delight to think of Wendy privately ruminating on his adventures before they ever met, and gloated so much that the sheer force of the emotion sometimes caused him to take flight.

"Oh, the cleverness of meeee!" he would cry, breaking his own etched-in-marble rule that no one was EVER to interrupt Mother during Story Time. As the boys cheered, he would turn cartwheels in the air, not stopping until he banged his head on the opposite wall, at which point he'd simply turn and cross the room again.

Peter often made her restart the story as much as eight times before she even got to the exciting part. Of course, he thought that the stories featuring him had nothing BUT exciting parts.

And when she finally finished, he would implore her to tell it again and again and again, only relenting when she truthfully confessed a sore throat and pleaded for mercy.

Wendy grinned.

All the boys were impossible on the nights she told them stories about their leader and Father.

To her surprise, Peter left the selection of stories entirely to herself. A few days after Story Time started, while they lounged outside her little house in the dappled sunlight, she asked him, "What shall we hear tonight?"

She had seen him surprised at things she said about school, and startled once or twice by a sudden cry during games of Capture and Kill. But this suggestion marked the first time Wendy ever saw Peter look truly shocked.

When he regained his bearings, he gravely shook his head. Hunting and fighting practice were his responsibility, but stories were HER domain alone, he said respectfully. No one would choose or tell them but her.

Wendy was flattered. And for two reasons, she gradually lost her fear that she would run out of tales as the nights went on.

Firstly, the boys never minded hearing a yarn repeated. In fact, they loved being able to anticipate what Nibs dubbed the "best brave and bloody bits".

Secondly, Wendy was delighted to realize just how many stories she had living comfortably in her brain. In Neverland, in which very few books existed and where most of the boys, including Peter, could barely read (and he still mixed up many of the 26 letters), she became their link to new worlds and faces both evil and heroic.

Sometimes she felt like Scheherezade, spinning her wordwebs night after night on pain of – well, she didn't know what. But when she saw Peter and the boys snap forward if she paused for even a second, she knew she didn't want to find out. Wendy shivered in delight to think what punishment might be inflicted on her in the radical event she ever ran out of fables and yarns.

There was only one caveat – the stories had to have happy endings.

One night, she introduced them to "The Star Child". Its arrogant, selfish boy protagonist eventually learned the meaning of kindness and love, but the lessons, forced at the hand of an evil magician, were so hard-learned that he died within three years of being made king of his long-lost homeland. When the tale reached its melancholy close, Wendy blinked a light, stinging film of tears from her eyes. When her vision cleared, she was dismayed to see that all the children looked stricken and sad too.

"Then what happened, Mother?" the twins asked together.

"Well – that's the end, dears," she told them gently.

"WHAT!?"

Their reaction had bordered on apoplexy. Peter had been livid, and although he did not go so far as to scold "Mother", especially in front of their boys, she could tell he was disappointed.

The next day, Slightly was the evil, enslaving magician of 'The Star Child" during the Boy's games, and was killed over and over again from breakfast to bedtime. With every stab of finger, toy dagger and alarmingly sharp twig, the point drove itself into Wendy's brain.

No. More. Sad. Endings. Even if she had to take what her ex-English teacher deemed "creative license" and change the events of the classic tales she told, they must come to a conclusion that brought glory to the hero and eternal pain to the fiend.

Wendy had always been a quick learner. That night, she told a version of Icarus in which the doomed Greek boy who soared on fake wings of feathers and glue did not plummet to his death into the icy sea. Instead, he was saved just in time by a huge, friendly bird who taught him to fly on his own. Peter was enchanted, and Wendy was so gratified by his smile that she felt no guilt at making up her own ending.

The boys were sometimes so exalted and transposed by the sequence of adventures that they became overexcited. "Help him!" they interjected on the heroes' behalf, their grubby hands clenched unknowingly into fists. "Dastardly villain!" they would curse the story's sinners. "Feed his liver to the sharks!"

When this happened, Peter would rise from his chair behind the gaggle of boys, come to stand beside Wendy at her story throne, fold his arms and ask quietly, "Who wants discipline?"

The response was immediate and total silence. None of them wanted it, because they knew what said discipline would be – ejection from the house right up until bedtime.

Threats of medicine and maiming only rallied the boys to dares, challenges and further insubordination. The prospect of missing out on Story Time terrified them, not least because they knew Peter wouldn't hesitate to carry out the fearsome punishment.

Tonight, Wendy was sharing one of her favorites, the Grimm's Brother's _Goose Girl_. The boys sat in a haphazard cluster in front of her. Even John and Michael, who had read and heard the tale before, were as rapt as their new Lost Brothers as Wendy brought it to a triumphant close.

"The King turned to the evil servant girl, who was so dazzled by the feast that she did not recognize the radiant woman next to her as the true princess whose place she had stolen.

'What, in your opinion, should be done to anyone who deceives their master thus?' he asked, and told the princess's story as if he had heard it in passing.

The wicked girl immediately said, 'No better than she should be thrown stark naked into a barrel studded with sharp nails, which must then be dragged through the streets by two white horses until she is dead!'"

"Ooh!" the Lost Boys exhaled gleefully at the image of such a gruesome punishment.

Wendy leaned forward, deepening her voice and pointing a menacing finger at the boys.

"'It is you,' said the King, 'and you have pronounced your own punishment, and so it will be done!'

And when the punishment was carried out, the handsome prince, touched by the beauty, goodness and honesty of his true bride, married her at once. They adored each other, were loved by their subjects and ruled in peace and happiness all their days. And they all lived…"

The boys chimed in eagerly with the three sole words that Peter allowed them during Story Time.

"Happily ever after!"

Their part and the story complete, they cheered and congratulated each other on another excellent tale.

Sitting behind them in his evening chair, Peter grinned proudly at Wendy and applauded, impressed by her choice and the relish with which she had told it. Next to stories featuring him and Hook, gory fairy tales were his favorite. He had requested "Jack the Giant Killer" several times already, and had gone around shouting "Fee fie foe fum!" until Wendy felt like screaming, much as she adored his company.

"SILENCE!" Peter yelled when the noise level became too loud for even his ears to bear.

The boys had behaved well during the story but were rambunctious now as they compared favorite parts. Nibs loved the ending, while John favored the severed horse's head nailed to the shadowy underpass wall.

"LESS NOISE!" Peter roared. His tribe obeyed this time, whereupon he began the final stage of their nighttime family ritual.

"Boys, thank your Mother for giving you such a fine, bloody story."

"Thank you, Mother!" they chorused.

"Thank you for the story, Mother," Curly piped in quietly. "It was most tasty."

Wendy beamed at them. "My pleasure, boys. You were not quite as wretched tonight as you usually are, and thus may be spared spankings tomorrow."

They all cheered again, relieved, though they knew their indulgent new Mother never had and probably never would lay a finger on them in anger, except in play.

"Bid Wendy good night, Tink," Peter said to the mischievous sprite, who had been perched on the arm of his chair and was now buzzing in front of him, tickling his chin. She had not missed a Story Time since she had been un-banished.

Her nightly attendance did not stem from any liking she felt to the pretty new interloper - far from it - but rather because she couldn't bear to be excluded from any event that Peter and the boys enjoyed so much.

"Good night, Tinker Bell," Wendy said, smiling politely.

Tink, in a genial mood this evening, grinned, put her hands on her hips and kicked a tiny bare foot up into the air, sending forth a shimmering shower of fairy dust that made Wendy sneeze.

The boys laughed as Tink trilled a "farewell" to them and flitted off to her own quarters.

"Quiet!" Peter shouted. "I shall tuck Mother in. Wish her a good night, boys."

"GOODNIGHT, MOTHER!" they yelled as one, in a voice Wendy was always sure would lead Captain Hook straight to them.

"Good night, boys," Wendy said, and as they passed her storytelling throne in a line, addressed them each by name in a ritual they loved, since it made them feel singled out and important.

"Sweet dreams, Nibs. I shall miss you until the morning, Tootles…do not kick your brothers tonight, twins."

"Goodnight, Wendy." John tipped an imaginary hat to her and scuffed off to his soft pallet, yawning and rubbing at the sleeves of his nightshirt.

"Goodnight, Wendy." Not too big yet for evening cuddles – especially since she was the only source of them - Michael came forward and squeezed her around the waist. Wendy smiled and hugged him warmly, rubbing his back and smoothing his hair, out of which she had brushed brambles and sticky pine needles that very afternoon.

The boys took a while to calm down, each calling "good night" to every single one of their brothers. This always took some time, but Peter and Wendy allowed them to do it since they never failed to fall asleep soon after. Though they would never admit it, their small bodies were exhausted from long days of fighting, gathering food, gorging on said cuisine, hearing exciting tales and chasing animals as well as each other.

He tipped her curtain back and gallantly bowed her into her chamber.

"It is your turn for bed, Mother."

Wendy smiled, eager to begin their ritual.


	2. Chapter 2

At certain times of the day, when Wendy wanted to be alone or felt that her head would explode if she was asked to darn another sock or tell another tale, she went and rested in her tiny house. For hours, she lay barely dozing or dreamily staring up at the ceiling and sun-dappled leaf walls, smiling when she heard the loud stage whispers outside:

"Is Mother well?"

"Have we upset her? Say no! Father will make us drink medicine by the jugful if we have."

"When is Mother coming out?"

The boys clamored joyfully when she emerged, fussing as if she had been gone for a week.

Wendy was always happy to see them again, but she took delight in her solitary afternoon "house visits".

But at night, when fairies glowed boldly outside and shiny visions of Hook danced in her head, she wanted to be close to Peter and the band.

She knew he would scoff if she admitted to being afraid of anything in the immediate vicinity of the house. He might even be insulted and think that she doubted his ability to protect her and their brood from Hook and his cronies.

But Peter understood the frightful prospect of banishment all too well. When Wendy described how her parents had planned to evict her from the nursery into a cold, lonely, solitary, _grown-up_ room when she wanted to stay near her brothers and have fun, his eyes had narrowed in anger at the perfidy of adults. Before she could say another word, he had summoned the boys and immediately ordered them to make her a "Mother's Den" angled into the back corner of the house.

It was small but snug – almost a human-sized version of Tinker Bell's chambers, with a little bed, a tiny, scuffed wooden table and chair that served as a vanity, and a large, tattered piece of dark blue cloth hung across a string for privacy.

Wendy adored it.

She also adored their goodnight kiss. Except for games of tag and practice fights, it was the only time he touched her.

She got into bed, having washed before story time. Peter waited for her to arrange herself comfortably and then moved forward to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, she put her hand on his shoulder. She had found that he didn't draw back from this contact if she did not rush into it.

He smiled at her and, in the gesture she had come to depend on, he closed his eyes, leaned forward and pressed his cheek to hers. Wendy closed her eyes, her skin tingling from his breath, savoring the smooth warmth of his skin and the comfort it gave her.

She could have stayed that way all night, but when Peter started to draw his face back by degrees, she did the same so as not to make him nervous.

He always smiled at her again once they could see each other's eyes once more, but tonight he drew back with a start.

"What is it, Peter?" she asked gravely.

He swallowed, lifted a hand and solemnly pointed it at her face. "Your mouth…in the corner…"

"Oh." Wendy grinned winningly and raised a finger to her lips, scrubbing the delicate skin there. "A smudge? That won't do at all, will it? I can't very well discipline the children for being dirty if I'm covered in stains myself, can I?"

She giggled and turned her mouth up to Peter.

"Is the spot gone?"

He looked down at his grimy hands for a moment and sighed. Wendy sat up, worried at his expression. He looked almost like their gentle family Dr. Brown did when he had to give her a shot that he knew would hurt her.

"The spot does not go away, Wendy. It is hidden in the right-hand corner. I always see it. I have not liked to mention it, but it does not go away, and it is getting stronger."

"Oh…"

Wendy leaned back against the worn but comfortable pillow Slightly had given her as a present last week. She grew warm under Peter's compassionate, pitying gaze, because she knew right away what he meant.

Some unpleasant memories of London were starting to run a little at the edges.

Yesterday, Wendy had been a little scared when it took her a full hour to remember the name of her cruelest form teacher – Mrs. Lehane, who liked to humiliate girls by standing them with their nose in a corner for hours on end. The name had only come to her when she stopped thinking about it.

When she told Peter about the memory delay, mildly distressed, he grinned like a satisfied cat. "Good!" he said. "That only proves you belong here. I hope you will soon forget that nasty lady's name entirely and forever."

But this memory was razor-sharp, because she knew the aspect of her mouth to which he referred.

Her hidden kiss.

Aunt Millicent's voice rang in her mind like a bell - not with the slightest distant trace of an echo, but so plain and strong that Wendy looked anxiously around the room to make sure the nervous, kind lady was not actually there.

_The one the kiss belongs to…They that find it have slipped in and out of heaven._

The one the kiss belongs to…

Wendy looked tentatively at her partner parent.

"Do you find the…spot…ugly, Peter?"

He immediately shook his head.

"No. All sections of you and all parts of your mouth are beautiful, and it is too."

She relaxed, feeling her cheeks flare with sudden heat. She knew it was terribly immodest and conceited to adore a compliment so, but she couldn't help herself.

"Don't!"

The expression tumbled from her face like a leaf from a shaken branch.

"What's the matter?"

"The spot gets bigger when you smile at me like that."

"Peter…" Wendy sat up again and shook her head, helpless and hurt. "Why does my hidden spot distress you so? You just said you thought it beau -"

His lightning-blue eyes widened in distress.

"What's wrong with you? Do you not understand? The scariest parts of Neverland are the most beautiful! Don't you remember the mermaids? They would have killed you! You would be at the bottom of the lagoon right now if I hadn't pulled you back!"

She blinked back sudden tears, dismayed and disheartened by his sudden outburst.

"Peter…I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"Afraid of you?!" he cried, his surprise totally genuine.

To show how afraid he was, he leaped up from his seat on the mattress, tore back the blanket, grabbed her bare foot by the ankle and yanked her out of bed.

Wend shrieked and almost fell on the floor in a heap, but her feet stayed free of the hem of her nightgown and she managed - barely - to right herself.

She glared at him, a little angry that he had yet again managed to divert the conversation whenever it so much as crept close to a street in which certain types of feelings lived.

Peter bared his teeth, eyes dancing like Tinker Bell. In a split second, his short dagger was swept from his belt and brandished at her.

"Bold and silly Mother, have at thee!"

Not breaking his gaze for a second, Wendy reached behind her to the tiny, scarred vanity table and picked up the long wooden blade that Peter had whittled for her. He had rolled his eyes when she first requested one, and constantly insisted that she use a real sword when she dueled with him.

She refused point-blank, saying that she preferred to let the metal blades stay sharp for any battles that may arise with Hook or his lackeys. Peter had yelled over and over that Old Five-Fingers, as he sometimes called the Captain, could never find their house, and that the steel blades would rust if they weren't used regularly. But when he realized that Wendy would not fight with him unless or until she had a satisfactory weapon of her own, he carved a wooden rapier for her with all due haste.

"_En garde!_" Wendy hissed, and they were off.

She forced Peter backward though the curtain that served as her bedroom door. With his left hand at his hip, he danced his way through the floor maze of snoring Lost Boys, none of whom stirred an inch.

One thing about her children, Wendy thought as she narrowly missed stepping on Curly's chubby forearm – once they fell asleep, they stayed that way for the whole night. They never woke up with bad dreams or requests for water. Their long, hard hours of play were good for something after all.

The pair lunged and parried in a mad, silent, joyful dance. Only Wendy's growing talents as a swordswoman saved her sturdy but thin wooden rapier from being slashed or knocked in two pieces by Peter's slender steel.

Blades clashed for several minutes until Wendy suddenly gained – and kept – the advantage.

"_Et la!_" she whispered, pointing the dull wooden blade against the waxy leaf that covered Peter's heart.

He grinned and bowed at her, conceding defeat.

The first time she beat him in a duel, Wendy was apologetic and expected Peter to be sulky, resentful or both. To her pleasant surprise, he was happier when she won than when he did himself. When she asked why, he explained that it was fun to play in "different" ways. Also, since he was the one who gave her fighting lessons, he saw it as a testament not only to her strength, but to his battle strategies and teaching skills. Whenever she vanquished him, he congratulated her and insisted that she show the Lost Boys how she had done it.

Wendy laughed shakily as Peter bowed her back to her living quarters. She was annoyed at him for deflecting the gravity of their talk into mere childplay…but in Neverland, there was nothing but time, she mused as they sat together on the edge of her bed.

"Your goodnight kiss, Mother."

He plucked an acorn from his verdant vest. Candlelight from the outer chamber shone in Wendy's eyes as she reached out and took it from his hand.

As always, she thanked him and strung it around the chain at her neck. It was now filled with the smooth kisses that Peter presented had her with every night since their arrival. After all, if one had saved her life, would not many be even better?

Peter waited until it was secure on her necklace, then nodded with satisfaction.

Peter picked up the patched, soft bedcovers from where they had fallen on the floor. Wendy obediently lay back as he tucked her in, her heart still pounding from their frenzied dance across the floor. Peter gently smoothed the warm blanket across her shoulders and then checking to ensure her feet were covered.

To bid her a fond, final sleep farewell, he adopted a phrase she sometimes used with the children.

"I shall see you in the morning, Wendy. I can't wait."

With another bow, he silently closed the curtain and headed to his own hammock.

"Nor can I, Peter…" Wendy murmured. She turned luxuriously on her side in her warm bed, her mind and soul already knocking on the door of the land where her night dreams…and the figure that filled them…waited to welcome her.

"Nor can I."


End file.
